


The Point of a Gun

by AdamantEve



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon Divergent, F/M, Seven Years Later, Time Jump, anti archie andrews, canon compliant in some ways, non-explicit mention of betty and archie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:48:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29959818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantEve/pseuds/AdamantEve
Summary: Seven years ago, Betty confessed her indiscretions and broke Jughead's heart.  That night, after telling her he loved her for the last time, he left town and Betty behind.Now, drawn back to Riverdale by the desperate summons of Archie, Jughead and Betty would have to find the pieces of themselves that they let scatter in their wake.  Was it so that they could be whole again? Or maybe it's just a means to rebuild themselves and go on their separate paths.Oh, and by the way, Archie  is being charged with the murder of his ex-girlfriend (who is NOT Veronica. She's back too, Jimmy Choos clicking on the floor and her eyes rolling in exasperation).
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 20
Kudos: 66





	1. Damn, Cooper

**Author's Note:**

> So I caved and continued what was inspired by this Anon prompt: "Wanted to know how you would write the Bughead reconciliation if the following happened. After graduation and FP leaving. Betty tells Jughead about the cheating and he says that he can forgive her and move on. They have a moment but later at night Jughead can't sleep and keeps thinking about the cheating. He gets ups packs his things and leaves. This makes them both made at each other. Jughead for the cheating and Betty for him just leaving. They don't talk at all over the seven years."
> 
> Here's where it started on [Tumblr](https://writeradamanteve.tumblr.com/post/642037550173880320/wanted-to-know-how-you-would-write-the-bughead). Now I'm continuing it here.

The FBI’s standard issue handgun is a Glock 17M - 9mm. It fits well in the hands of a trained agent, lies flat and compact against a body holster, and is perfectly weighed fully loaded for maximum accuracy and handling. 

Jughead knows all this because he had amassed enough knowledge about firearms to write about them in the crime fiction he publishes. He had done research on many handheld weapons--guns, knives, even candlesticks. Hell, he’d researched the impact of a golf club relative to the speed and distance of its swing. After all, he’d seen one crack open a skull. 

He’d always thought that if he ever found himself staring down the muzzle of a gun at point blank range, his dramatic self would contemplate the meaning of his life, but now he found himself studying the gun’s anatomy relative to the hands that held it with trained precision, how those same hands wrapped systematically around the grip, pointer finger precisely placed near, but not on, the trigger, and how those hands tapered to slim and bony wrists. 

He knew the shape of them, all too well, not just by sight, but by the curve and press of them against his lips, perhaps even by the salt-taste of its skin, with a hint of that vanilla scented perfume he liked so much.

It was hard to tell whether the memories that assaulted him were compelled by the inevitability of his mortality or by the person aiming the gun at him, because what he could remember of his past life right now were the moments painted by the brush of her golden, ponytailed hair, the touch of pink on her cheeks, or the accents of her green eyes.

His insides were fraught with opposing emotions--love and betrayal, joy and sadness, pleasure and pain. Every moment that had given his life meaning was tainted by the heartbreak that beset him that night he told her he loved her, that he forgave her, and then the moment she fell asleep, he got to thinking that if even the best thing that ever happened to him in his life in Riverdale would conclude in heartache, then maybe he should have gone with his first instinct 3 years ago. 

It was the last time his gaze fell on those shiny golden locks. He committed that image to memory, then he turned away, packed up, and left Riverdale, and Betty, behind him. 

If he ever did return, he was certain that he’d learned his lessons well, that moving forward would give him the wisdom to know better, and that giving himself the chance to realize who he could be without her was his way of growing up, or becoming. 

But right now it was all coming down to the point of a gun, where he realized that his mortality came second to the fact that Betty still had as firm of a grip on him as she did with her gun, because on top of everything else, all those memories of her racing through his mind, a voice in his head was whispering, so distinctly, _Damn, Cooper._

The soft breath she expelled when she caught sight of him was first filled with relief, followed by the quick retraction of her arms and her glock. Its muzzle was directed elsewhere, but at that point, he could see that her relief was morphing into something else. 

He noted the fury of her glare, but its intensity burned quick, more like a flash, immediately replaced by a frost so distinct that he wondered if the gun wasn't a better reception. 

“I could’ve shot you,” she said, letting another breath go as carefully, deliberately, she let the gun drop to her side. 

He could see her eyes taking in his suitcase, and the keys in his hand, but she only looked back up at him, as if waiting for him to say something. 

“Five Seasons was fully booked,” he said. “And the key I had still worked, so--”

“I’m surprised you kept it. I assumed you chucked your set into Sweetwater River all those years ago when you left.”

God, she knew him too well. 

“I did. These are dad’s.”

She made a sound, halfway between a snort and a derisive chuckle. “Well, you’ve already let yourself in. Feel free to--” she made a gesture with her other hand “--make yourself at home in your mother’s house.”

It didn’t escape him that her mention of the house’s ownership implied that if it weren’t for that fact, she might have told him to get the hell out. 

Polite, as always, gun notwithstanding. Because that’s what she was, wasn’t she? Proper, neat, but always ready to pick up a weapon or stain her hands with grease. 

She turned to head back up the stairs, her much longer ponytail swishing against the middle of her back, but she stopped at the bottom step and said, “Linens are where you left them and Polly’s room is perfectly fine for use. Should be something in the fridge for you to heat up.”

It seems like in spite of it all, the 7 years apart and the dead silence between them all these years, he still knew Betty Cooper. 

Only then did she resume her heavy-stepped climb.

He wondered if he should say anything else, but all he could do was watch her retreating figure, wondering if that whiff of vanilla was real or a figment of his imagination. 


	2. Cold

Cold was a constant presence in her life the last seven years. 

She felt cold when she was alone in bed. She felt cold in the office, in her car, in waiting rooms, many work related facilities, and certainly when she was outdoors. 

She would cope, of course. She wouldn’t be Betty Cooper if she didn’t. 

The pursuit of warmth was a means to survive, to exist, to function. A cold bed meant she couldn’t sleep, so she’d find an extra comforter, an extra pillow, or an extra body. She’d made a habit of wearing blazers and layers, to keep warm at work. She might have snuck in a space heater, against office policy, to combat the prickly sensation that often slid up her arms as she typed her reports. 

Hot tea helped everywhere. With her heat blasting in the car, the tea penetrated the cold sitting in the pit of her stomach, keeping her warm when she needed to be out and about, pursuing leads and meeting with suspects, important people, and regular folks. 

She ran outdoors. A lot. She last clocked in at seven and a half minutes a mile. The running keeps her warm. It also makes her think she is heading towards something. Of course, it also sometimes feels like she’s running _away_ , but she never lets those thoughts bog her down. Not as much as it used to, anyway. 

It was cold when she got the text message from Mary Andrews, too, having just stepped out the doors of FBI Headquarters.

The blast of wind that hit her face seeped straight to her bones as she read _Archie needs your help. Please call me._

It was strange, because she’d never _not_ wanted to be _needed_ by anybody for anything in her entire life. Being needed was her thing. It drove many forces in her life, but to read that _Archie_ needed her help--the deep freeze in her gut was oddly unsettling. 

She chalked it up to the fact that it was Mary trying to contact her, and not the one who actually needed her help. Just how much were they all trying to avoid talking to one another? 

She called, anyway, and only after she heard Mary’s voice that it occurred to Betty that Mary was the one reaching out for Archie because he simply _couldn't_. 

As it turned out, he was being detained, because Archie’s ex-girlfriend-- _not Veronica,_ Mary had made sure to clarify--had been murdered, her body washing up on the banks of Sweetwater River. Archie was the prime suspect and he told his mother that he didn’t trust anyone but his friends to prove his innocence. 

_Fuck,_ Betty remembered thinking. Of course she had to help him, and she would bet Jughead would be asked, as well. Betty was certain of that. So much so that her next question to Mary was, “Is Veronica invited to this reunion?”

Mary’s grim chuckle rippled through the line. “She is. And she’s going to come back just like the rest of you will.”

Mary knew the power her son had over all of them. 

Betty wondered about that on a few occasions, how Archie could so easily drag them back into his life whenever he wanted. As much as Betty hated to admit it, Archie did serve as a glue for the four of them. There was hardly any doubt that there were ties that bound them, but it was Archie alone who could yank them all back together. 

Betty hadn’t spoken to Jughead since he left her seven years ago, and any desire to reach out to him and reconnect had shattered at the voicemail he left after she had, with she now realized was a silly amount of hope, texted him about attending his book signing. He had sounded drunk, but the message was the same: _This was the only way I could grow past us, and I’d appreciate it if you respect that._

Jughead continues to live rent-free in her mind, she had to admit, but she’d learned to keep the locks in place where thinking about him was concerned. He didn’t have to succeed in breaking her heart every time she thought about him. She’d learned to cope with the wave of emotions that always threatened to overcome her with respect to him, and she can live the rest of her life with near-normal functionality. 

Veronica was a slightly different matter. They’d communicated between the years, a birthday greeting and Christmas card here or there, offers to meet up for drinks when one or the other was within close proximity for work, the occasional “like” on social media, and the rare text about someone they mutually knew who _wasn’t_ Jughead. 

The updates about Jughead, she could sniff out on her own—at least in the last three years. Before that, he had stayed away from social media like the self-proclaimed weirdo he was. Publishing a book forces writers to sign up for Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram and so it was for Forsythe Pendleton Jones III.

Publishing houses strongly encouraged its authors to be on social media, and Betty could tell by his posts that many of them were web publicist-approved. Even his casual posts about food were probably his way of appeasing his publisher and their likely insistence that he post more personal accounts of his life. 

And while Betty found that she liked his posts about burgers and pizzas the most, she had wondered, on occasion, when he started enjoying the outdoors, as some of his posts suggest.

Jughead was not outdoorsy in high school. He would follow leads in forests, protect Archie in the wilderness, and he would occasionally join his friends to swim at a watering hole during the summer, mainly so he could be with his girlfriend all night at camp, but Jughead never went outdoors to _enjoy_ it by himself.

Seeing him spending time outdoors on a bike, which his Instagram posts showed her he did on a semi-regular basis—

_Who’s motivating you, Jughead?_

She hated it when she got this way. Wondering about who Jughead might be seeing. Or if someone out there is helping him make better choices. She told herself over and over again that she should be happy he’s happy, and that her petty jealousy served no one. Not even herself.

So back to its compartment these thoughts went. They surfaced every so often but she’d become expert at quickly packing them back into their sturdy boxes.

The Cold persists and will continue to persist. It had to, because it was the only thing that seemed to hold her together, especially these last few months.

Reassuringly, it stayed with her all the way from her plane ride, to her drive up to Riverdale, to her still inexplicably pink bedroom in Elm. 

That same cold was deadening when she crept down the hallway with her gun in her hand, steadying her heartbeat when she heard the creak of door hinges and the tread of boots on the floor. Her cold was crisp like ice when she raised her gun to the intruder, not a single tremor to mar her steady hands.

So it was a shock to her system, seeing Jughead standing there, a startled expression on his face.

Their surprise of one another took only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity as her senses very slowly kicked in.

His clothes looked different. There wasn’t a hint of plaid.

He wore a blouse. A white one. It wasn’t crisp. A bit sloppy, in fact, unbuttoned down half his chest, where she spied a tattoo, which she could vaguely make out to be of flowers and a crown.

His jeans fit him better, definitely of a more expensive brand, and just the right shade of deeply dark grey that could trick the eye into thinking it was black. A scarf was slung over his neck, the kind that served mostly as an accessory for novelists like him.

But most startling were his glasses, his striking blue eyes framed by what she knew were $500 worth of plastic and glare-resistant lenses. His face was unshaven and his hair was mildly unkempt, but damn if her fingers didn’t itch to run through it.

He looked a bit like a wreck, but he _still_ looked so good and she could hear her mind’s voice scolding her.

_Get it together, Cooper._

And just when she thought she had a handle on it, he flashed her a look reminiscent of years ago, before she broke his heart, before she ruined them. He was unafraid of the gun pointed at his face. She could tell because he was staring at her instead, like seeing her brandishing a firearm weren’t a real threat. 

And when his eyes took her in, head to foot, warmth began to spread from her neck and pooled at her belly. 

_Enough._

She was scolding him then. She couldn’t remember exactly what she said to him. Something about shooting him, and about the keys to the house, or even something in the refrigerator.

It was kind of a blur, because all this ice-thawing inside her was no doubt fogging her well-honed instinct to organize her thoughts.

She fled, weirdly. She never, usually, but this time she felt she needed to retreat.

Strategic, she believed. She hadn’t been prepared. She needed to regroup and have a plan. The last thing she wanted was for Jughead to think that she was going to be a problem.

They were adults and they could exist together in a house without it having to be some kind of Reality Show hot mess.

So it was infuriating that as she lay in bed, every sound he made coming up the stairs, going into Polly’s bedroom, and using the shared bathroom--kept her firmly and widely awake. 

Nevermind that for the first time in years, she suddenly wasn’t feeling cold in the least.


End file.
